


Stories Within a Story II

by Blue_Sunshine



Series: The Desert Storm [15]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Jedi Temple (Star Wars), Mandalorian Culture, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-18 16:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21930538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine
Summary: More bonus content for the Holidays!As before, feel free to leave prompts in the comments and I will see what I can do.
Series: The Desert Storm [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1311746
Comments: 153
Kudos: 1646





	1. Grandpadawans

General Kenobi stares over the holographic display, not seeing it so much as staring far beyond it, comm officers working quietly at their stations around him. He doesn’t even register the door opening.

“Sir, you have a visitor.” Cody prompts him, and he starts a little, drawing back to himself and straightening rigidly before turning around, prepared for whatever is about to land on their heads next.

He turns, blinks, and then looks _down_.

The little togruta smiles at him with just a hint of nerves, far less of that bravado and attitude she displayed stepping off the transport present in her frame. “Master Kenobi.” She greets, clasping her hands and bowing.

“Padawan Tano.” He replies with a gentle smile. Her nervousness settles some, her smile more sure. “What can I do for you?” He inquires.

“I was just….” She trails off, blushing a bit. “Well, I was just wondering if you were going to request a new padawan? I realized that my assignment to Master Skywalker might have… not been what you were hoping for?” She winces at her own awkward manner, and he finds himself relaxing some.

“Oh, little one, while I _am_ a bit put out that my own padawan quite usurped my request, I am not rid of him so easily, and you are not rid of me.” He teases. “It is just as much an honor to receive a grandpadawan as it is to find myself training another student. Truth be told – and you can never tell Anakin this – I was apprehensive of training another. I’m still not quite sure how the first one turned out.”

It works, and she giggles, before blushing up to her brows and attempting to hide the laughter. She’s barely been apprenticed a day – surely it would be indecorous to laugh at her master.

“Well if that’s the case,” She returns boldly, her grin irrepressible. “I’ll let you know.”

Cody snorts, and turns it into a sneeze and a cough.

“You all right there, commander?” The general inquires dryly, with good humor.

“Fine sir.” Cody replies promptly, clearing his throat. “Just a tickle.”

The two jedi share a glance, and start snickering again.

~*~

“Argh!”

Yoda watches the boy give into frustration and throw his lightsaber at the training dummy, only for the lightsaber to bounce off and strike him in the shoulder. “Ow!” He mutters, running his shoulder as the saber clatters to the floor, the blade having died when it left his hand.

Shaking his head, Yoda shuffles his way into the training room. “So carelessly, treat your lightsaber, you should not. No mere possession, it is.”

“Master Yoda!” The teenager yelps, scrambling to scoop up the saber and straighten his hair. Yoda peers up at him. “Apologies, grandmaster.”

Yoda shakes his head. “Troubled, you are, hmm, Qui-Gon?”

The boy’s expression darkens, but his lips thin and he resolutely shakes his head.

Yoda perks his ears. “No?” He questions. “So a conversation, I did not just have, with your master? Stomp off in a huff, he did not? Well, is all between you?”

The stubbornness in the boy’s countenance wavers. “What did he say?” He asks, uncertainty threading his voice, and Yoda wishes he had grumbled more at his own padawan’s demeanor. A grown man, Yan Dooku was. So willfully stubborn, even when he is in the wrong, he should not be.

But if that were a trait Yoda could have corrected, he had failed to do so when Yan was a much younger man.

“Fail to imitate him, you do. Fail to agree with his views, you do. Disobedient, you are. Argumentative, you are. Headstrong. Foolish, he claims you to be.” Yoda remarks, watching the teen deflate miserably.

The lanky young man steps away from the training floor and sinks down near the elder, longs legs stretching out, arms falling limp in his lap. He slumps, and Yoda grumbles, for that cannot be good for his spine.

“Foolish, my old padawan is.” Yoda adds pointedly, watching shock light the teenagers face.

“Master Yoda, but he’s-“

Yoda pokes him with his walking stick, and the teenager shuts up with a scowl.

“Disobedient, you are. Argumentative, you are. Fail, you do. Good. _Good_ , this is.” Yoda prods him, earning crossed arms and confusion, Qui-Gon drawing his knees up o rest his elbows upon them. “Qui-Gon Jinn, you are. Yan Dooku, you are not. _Be_ Yan Dooku, you need not. A copy of your master, you are not meant to be. What he teaches – up to him, that is. What you learn, hm? Control that, he cannot. Learn from our masters, we must, yes. But lesson learned, not always the lesson taught, it is, hm?”

“He gets so angry with me, Master Yoda.” Qui-Gon confesses reluctantly. “And I get so angry with him. I fear he’ll repudiate me.”

“And admit, that wrong, he was, when choose his student, he did?” Yoda inquires.

Qui-Gon scoffs a laugh. “I suppose there is that.” He grumbles. “But wouldn’t it be better, if we’re so ill-suited?”

“Renounce your master, _you_ wish to?” Yoda asks, feeling grave in his heart at the prospect. Thy struggled, yes, but was it to that point? In spite of what they believed, Yan and Qui-Gon were of a far more similar temper than of a different. He had hoped, that two such tempers would eventually teach the pair to give in to them less, not more.

“Oh, I couldn’t do that, Master Yoda.” Qui-Gon sighs, propping his chin in one hand. “But I can’t be what he wants me to be either. I don’t know.” The teen struggles. “I just don’t know. I _try_.” He swears. “But it never seems to be enough.”

“Hm.” Yoda thinks on it, reaching over to rest a hand on the boy’s knee, earning a hopeful look. “Move to the dorms, perhaps you should. Forsake your master, you need not, but take your own path, it seems, you must. A worthy Jedi, you are, padawan of my padawan. A worthy knight, you will make, hm?”

A hand in that, more directly, Yoda could take. Will take, he decides. A great Jedi, the boy before him could be.

Ice-blue eyes still look troubled. “I hope so.” He replies.

~*~

“Ignore his scary face, he cries when one of his cacti dies.”

Mace opens the door on that flattering note, and scowls. “Depa, what on-“

His former padawan shoots him a sharp look, and glances pointedly…down.

There is a youngling.

He stares up at Mace with wide blue eyes under a mop of dark hair, and Mace sees the world shatter around him, and he sees and he does not see and there is silence and there is fire and there is- a little boy, standing with his padawan, shadowing his doorway.

“Master, this is Caleb.” Depa informs him, too sweetly to be anything but a warning. “My padawan.”

A padawan.

His….padawan’s padawan.

A grandpadawan.

Oh.

“Hello.” Mace greets politely, bowing. The youngling bows back. Depa sighs, rolls her eyes, and shoos her master back into his quarters. “Tea?” She offers.

“These are _my_ quarters.” He points out.

“In which case, you should be offering tea to me.” She counters with an arched look.

“You don’t drink it.” Mace retorts, crossing his arms. She certainly seems much recovered, and if she’s lively enough to banter with him… he’s relieved. But really, his padawan never did seem to accept that she did not, in fact, still live here.

“May I come in?” …Caleb asks, peeking in the entryway.

“Of course.” Mace steps aside, inviting the boy in. He walks sedately, eyes taking in every detail.

“Is that your cacti collection?”

“Yes.” Mace remarks, stating the obvious and studying the boy.

“Do you really cry when one of them dies?”

Mace sighs, and the boy apologizes.

“Do you know where all the cacti are from?”

“Have you actually been to all those planets?”

Mace peers at the boy, who turns, and peers back. “Yes.” Mace replies simply.

The boy grins.

“Do you take some with you when you go on campaign?”

“Jedi do not covet personal possessions.” Mace reminds the boy. Caleb scrunches up his nose.

“A lightsaber is a personal possession.” The boy points out. “And I don’t think it’s about coveting. It’s just a bit of home. We’re allowed that. There’s nothing wrong with carrying that with you.”

Mace blinks, and looks at Depa, whose padawan was certainly very sure of himself for someone who asked quite so many questions. She offers her master a cool smile and brings them all tea – well, she brings Mace and Caleb tea, and caf for herself.

He could offer a lecture – or several – on the tenets of the Jedi Code, on materialism, on pragmatism, but perhaps, given what Depa said as he opened the door, he should endeavor not to seem too stern.

This is his first grandpadawan, after all. He’d like not to frighten the boy.

“Perhaps.” He concedes, and earns another bright grin.

~*~

“A little lower and you might have succeeded, padawan.” Qui-Gon remarks, lightly teasing.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Master.” Padawan Jeisel grins, and Dooku scowls.

“That guard was abysmal. You should hardly be congratulated on that.” He remarks, truly appalled, as any opponent with skill could have gutted the girl if that was her defense. He frowns over at Qui-Gon. “It hardly encourages one to succeed if they are so praised for the barest of efforts. You were certainly taught better.”

He knows, of course, that saying such a thing is only an invitation for an argument, but certainly it must be said, no matter that he is so weary of arguing with his padawan. It seemed they never ceased.

Qui-Gon’s expression shutters and sours darkly, and his padawan switches her blade back to her preferred hand, glancing between them with affront, and settling that outrage on him. “Oh, _fight me._ ” She growls.

Qui-Gon starts, and Dooku frowns at her. “Beg pardon?”

“Quit lurking, grandmaster, and fight me.” She challenges, gaze hard, when weeks ago she could barely stutter out a greeting in his direction without one of her friends to support her. “How my master chooses to train me is his discretion. Your commentary should be limited to yours.”

Ah. So she had not gracefully taken his decline to instruct her in Makashi, but he hardly saw the point if Komari was so enamored of the idea of doing so, and Qui-Gon would no doubt disparage him stepping in.

“A bold challenge, for one of your skills.” He remarks, looking to Qui-Gon to reign his padawan in, and clicking his tongue when Qui-Gon, of course, fails to do so. He held very little regard for decorum. Qui-Gon crosses his arms and lifts a brow, just as challenging as Jeisel’s.

“I’d hate to deprive my apprentice the opportunity to engage with her grandmaster.” Qui-Gon states blithely. _Such foolishness_ , Dooku thinks.

 _And such foolishness I oblige_ , he adds to his thoughts, striding into the training room. “If you insist.”

She flips her saber around into a reverse grip, and he curls his lip. Surely Qui-Gon didn’t allow her to practice such a thing? In fact, Qui-Gon’s expression does pinch, but he doesn’t correct the girl, who adopts an Ataru stance.

He makes the opening move, almost lazily, just to gauge her reaction. She dashes his blade aside easily, with a fluid roll of motion. Ataru is an energetically expensive form, difficult to maintain, a form that seeks to make up for such a flaw through sheer power and aggressive advance. It is not well suited to face the precise economy of Makashi.

And yet.

He draws it out, and she displays a remarkable reserve not typical of Ataru combatants, forgoing all the flash and flare, winnowing the style down to a framework of speed and maneuverability –

And she certainly has maneuverability, he realizes. Where the ground and the walls are appear to matter very little – if she chooses to step somewhere, to turn, to land, to brace herself, the world cooperates.

She does not win, naturally, but she does not let him so easily dismiss her either.

“A competent display.” Dooku concedes, once she’s yielded. “In spite of your disadvantageous saber form.”

“High praise.” Qui-Gon and his padawan deadpan, and Dooku scowls.

“Thank you, grandmaster, for obliging.” Padawan Jeisel bows, still catching her breath.

He glances between them, feeling decidedly… disconnected, and wishing it weren’t so apparent.

“Perhaps we may repeat the endeavor, Padawan Jeisel.” He nods, and feels a tiny thread of satisfaction, at Qui-Gon’s shock.

 _I am not_ so _implacable, old padawan of mine_.

Perhaps it has been too long and too difficult, for him to ever regain Qui-Gon’s regard. But perhaps, perhaps he can earn his grandpadawans, and mend at least some of the harm that has been done between them.


	2. Empire Day

Obi-Wan has only been Master Ben’s padawan for two months, and those two months have easily been the most trying and exhausting and possibly the best of his life.

He learns more about Master Ben every day – that he seems to have mastered almost every saber form in existence, that he adores younglings, that he really likes spicy food, and that he finds the Temple a bit too cold most mornings, until he’s been up and bout for awhile.

But he still doesn’t really _know_ Master Ben. So when, instead of getting up the moment Obi-Wan starts to wake, his master rolled over and said ‘I think I’ll lie in a bit, padawan.’ Obi-Wan didn’t think much of it. If Obi-Wan was exhausted, his master had to be at least a little tired, right? Obi-Wan, at least, was given breaks. Master Ben never seemed to give himself breaks. So this was a hopeful development.

So he’d gone to breakfast with the Skywalkers – Anakin had been a little upset, and Obi-Wan obligingly gave the youngling the comfort and attention he’d wanted – and brought a tray back for his master before heading off for his classes.

It was now lunchtime, and the tray was still sitting exactly where Obi-Wan had left it, untouched.

That hopeful relief from this morning was starting to curdle into anxiety, and Obi-Wan cautiously approaches their room. The door swicks open near silently, and his master is still lying in bed.

He’s not asleep. Obi-Wan can see the slight sheen of his eyes, as Master Ben stares morosely at the ceiling.

“Master?” Obi-Wan whispers quietly. He goes unheard.

“Master?” He repeats, more loudly, and his master shifts, turns his head to look at him, and blinks. “Are you alright?” He asks.

“Have I missed breakfast?” His master inquires, instead of answering, sitting up abruptly with that rote martial economy that he has to his movements sometimes, like his body is on autopilot and could go on like that forever, if need be.

“Er…yes.” Obi-Wan replies hesitantly. Master Ben pauses, looking at him with concern, and Obi-Wan notes how very weary his master looks. “It’s actually lunch time.”

“Ah.” His master grimaces. “I’ll be out shortly.” He nods, and Obi-Wan slips back out of the room. Master Ben reappears in less than a minute, and that is a skill Obi-Wan wonders if he’ll ever learn, because his master wears far more traditional tabards, with layers that all have to be carefully aligned. Obi-Wan has tried the style once or twice, and never managed to get them presentable in less than five minutes, which is why he – and most padawans – prefer a much simpler style.

They take the tray back to the dining hall, and Obi-Wan makes a study of his master, who picks listlessly at his food and doesn’t make his usual inquires as to Obi-Wan’s morning.

 _Loss of appetite in unpleasant circumstances is not uncommon_ , Obi-Wan thinks, recalling his very first conversation with the man. He hadn’t realized at the time that Master Ben was speaking from personal experience, and he wonders why today of all days his master seems to be struggling, but he’s not sure he has the courage to ask.

“Are you going to visit the creche today?” Obi-Wan asks instead, thinking some time with the youngling’s might brighten his Master’s mood, as it tended to.

“I think not.” His master replies absently, staring down into the bowl of soup he wasn’t eating.

Obi-Wan fidgets. “Master, are you ill?” He asks.

Master Ben looks up at the question, a bit caught out. “Pardon? No. I’m… today is not a very pleasant day for me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s really not your fault, padawan.” Master Ben remarks, with a slightly painful looking smile. Obi-Wan frowns doubtfully. His master looks him over and sighs. “Perhaps you’d like to spend this afternoon with your friends?”

“But today is a training day.” Obi-Wan says, his rest day still three days off, though his heart does a little leap at the idea of an early reprieve. He doesn’t want to feel good about his master feeling bad.

“I don’t think I have the focus for a proper lesson today, padawan.”

Obi-Wan bites the inside of his cheek. He’s noticed, at times, that his master will hesitate to call him by name, and Obi-Wan doesn’t know if his master just doesn’t feel familiar enough yet or if it’s because he hesitates, at times, as if he might call him by someone else’s name, or something else entirely. Surely, his friend’s master’s aren’t nearly so enigmatic.

Obi-Wan heads back to his classes feeling uneasy about the entire day, and a bit useless besides, that he can’t even figure out how to make his master feel better, and as a padawan, isn’t it his responsibility to support his master, just as it is his master’s responsibility to support him?

But luck would have it – he spots a familiar figure before he makes it back to his lessons.

“Master Ti!” Obi-Wan calls out, trotting up to her and bowing. When he looks back up, he balks a little, because there is always a part of him that says ‘ _be still, be quiet’_ when he has her full focus, but he’s given to understand that that is that case with most when approaching a Togruta. Most sentient species evolved from predators of some sort, humans included, but Togruta were just somewhat closer to those roots, and they retained yet certain traits that other predator species recognized down in their hindbrains as something that could have hunted _them_.

“Padawan Kenobi.” She smiles, politely not showing her sharper teeth as she does. Truly, instinct aside, she is one of the _gentlest_ master’s he’s ever met. “Can I helped you?” She asks kindly.

“I’m alright.” Obi-Wan says honestly. But do you think you could visit my master? He’s – he’s not having a very good day, and I don’t know what to do.”

Understanding lights her silver gaze, and she nods thoughtfully. “Leave it to me.” She promises.

Obi-Wan nods, relieved, and promises himself that he may not know how to help the man now, but one day he will, and until then… well, that’s when one relied on their friends.

~*~

Ben had dreaded falling asleep and he dreads waking up, finding himself curled into a tight knot against the wall, muscles painfully tight, the taste of sulfur lingering in the back of his throat, the echoes of cold seeping through his marrow, like he’d never be warm again. He draws himself out of bed feeling decades older than he is, his body reluctant to cooperate, his heart and head aching.

Obi-Wan, bless him, is both awake and coherent and apparently already productive for the morning, as Ben finds breakfast waiting for him, and tea.

Ben sinks down on the couch and takes a warm drink with pleasure and a little desperation, because his bones still ache with cold, and the spicy warmth only somewhat dispels it. He hates this day, and the memory of this day, and yet the haunt of it keeps him focused, keeps him sharp.

He shivers slightly, warming, and glances at the chrono, and frowns.

“Padawan, should you not be in class?” Ben had slept fitfully, and yet wished nothing more than to pass through this day in unconscious oblivion, and so rose late. He hadn’t realized quite how late.

“I’ve been excused.” Obi-Wan replies simply, a datapad in one hand. Ben lifts a brow. He certainly hadn’t arranged to have his padawan excused for classes today, but the fifteen year old glances at him with clear resolve in his eyes, and Ben wisely chooses not to argue. He has never explained his nightmares to his padawan, nor why some days were simply worse, near impossible, but Obi-Wan was not oblivious. By now he can no doubt recognize some foul anniversary for what it was, and truth be told…

Truth be told, Ben appreciates not being so _alone_ , today of all days.

Obi-Wan, once the tea pot is empty and Ben has managed to eat a little, manages to usher Ben into leaving their quarters. Ben allows his padawan to do so, not minding the distraction in the least.

“Master Ben!” A pair of younglings runs up to them, some of those he has taught early Force lessons too, but too young to have also gone to Ilum under his tutelage, which is the ideal age for youngling to adore him. Post Ilum, younglings tend to dread him, as they’ve learned what a taskmaster he can be. All but a few, at least. “This is for you. Wear it please.” The little mirialan boy insists, handing him a paper bracelet.

Bemused, Ben accept the gift, sliding it on carefully so as not to tear the fragile paper. The mirialan boy and his companion grin brightly, high five each other, and dart back off.

Ten minutes later, the exercise is repeated. They make it to the gardens, and Ben is all but accosted, soon wearing a dozen very carefully made paper bracelets in a variety of colors and designs.

His padawan tries to hide a sly smile, and Ben turns a forbidding raised brow on him.

“It must be arts and crafts day, master.” His padawan suggests, attempting to feign innocence.

“Oh, must it be?” Ben replies dryly.

They round the main fountain, and pause, to see Master Windu attempting to politely refuse similar adornments from a gaggle of pleading-eyed younglings, a hint of panic in the harun kal’s eyes as his resistance crumbles.

“But Master Windu, Master Ben is wearing them!” One nautolaun girl points out shrilly. Mace looks up, catches Ben’s eye with a withering stare, and promptly concedes defeat. The younglings cheer as he slides them on, and dash off. “I got five!”

“I got seven!” Another youngling crows.

“Are they…” Master Windu scowls after them. “Is this a _challenge_?”

“If it were, I fear you’d be losing.” Master Fisto remarks, strolling by with the paper adornments carefully applied to his head-tentacles, a charming smile on his face.

“Beg pardon?”

“The younglings are challenging each other to see who can get the most masters to wear their bracelet.” Master Fisto. “The _masters_ are challenged to see who can get the most younglings to give them a bracelet.”

“And whose idea was this?” Mace crosses his arms. Master Fisto’s gaze flits glancingly to Obi-Wan, and then back, before he shrugs.

“Who could say?” The Master remarks, and departs with a wave of his hand. “I’ll be seeing you.”

Mace grumbles, looking down at the little gifts he was wearing, and then trudges off with determination in his gaze. He never could quite resist a competition.

Ben looks down, smiles, and slings an arm around his padawans shoulders, drawing him into a brief, squeezing hug. He is, he decides, pleasantly distracted. “Do you suppose I might be the youngling’s favorite?” He teases.

“Well…” His padawan tilts his head, pleased. “I would have thought so, but to the surprise of everyone, Knight Gallia appears to be in the lead. Master Yoda, of course, is not partaking. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Knight Gallia?” Ben remarks. “That won’t suit.”

“Challenge her at your own risk, Master.” Obi-Wan grins.

“I rather think I will.” Ben mutters.


	3. The Sand Excersize

To say Adi was surprised to find her padawan mediating of her own free will on her own free time was, perhaps, and understatement. It wasn’t that Siri was not a dedicated student, it was – well, like most padawans, she dreaded the exercise, still struggling to reach that place of serenity within meditation that opened up her connection to the Force, which meant that meditation, in her experience, was mostly sitting around fruitlessly trying not to be distracted.

And, not that Adi was not pleased, however…

“Siri, do you not have a class?” She inquires. Her padawan’s crystal blue eyes fly open, and she lurches to her feet, nearly upending the bowl of sand she’d had sitting in her lap. Adi puzzles at the possession, but focuses on her startled student.

“I didn’t mean to cut the class, master!” She swears, hurrying to fetch her datapad and get out the door. “I lost track of time.”

“I can see that.” Adi remarks. “What had you so intent?”

Siri flushes red. “Oh, um…. I was trying to figure out Obi-Wan’s sand excersize.” She mumbles. “He hasn’t figured it out yet, but he’s still managing to learn something from it, and I thought, well, maybe I could….” Her padawan stops rambling abruptly, shrugs, and heads out he door. “I’ll clean up right after class, master, I promise.”

“I trust you.” Adi remarks, as the girl disappears.

The door swicks shut, and Adi stares at the empty space, bemused. Not that she doubted Master Naasade’s teaching methods – much, anymore – given the results easily displayed by his padawan, but what could he possibly be having that boy learn by meditating on sand?

Curious, Adi stoop to pick up the bowl, attempting to sweep the spilled grains back into her hand, and relying on a little assistance from the Force. Still she misses some, and they glint at her from the fibers of the carpet.

Pausing, lip pursed, Adi adjusts the cushion Siri has been sitting on, and lowers herself into a meditative pose, wondering if she could not surmise the lesson herself, with a little investigation.

She settles easily, letting her senses expand, and focuses on the bowl sweeping the grains up and into the air fluidly, feeling them turn and drift, some of them slipping her grasp, joining the others in her carpet, and she wonders if that isn’t half the exercise – learning not to drop any. Surely Naasade was constantly having to sweep, if hi padawan was doing this in their quarters.

But if it was a lesson in fine control, would he not have mastered it by now? Adi toys with the grains, which were themselves rather touched by the Force already, having been the intent focus of such meditations previously. Each individual grain glittered slightly in her senses, a blurry gleam of thousands held in her focus, and Adi spreads them out, trying to get a sense of what, perhaps, her padawan had been attempting, or Naasade’s padawan before her – she could feel the echo of Padawan Kenobi, so surely that must be were Siri got the-

The door flies open and her padawan rushes back in.

“I grabbed the wrong - Master?” Siri pauses mid stride, and Adi opens her eyes quite sheepish of the fact that her entire lap was now littered with the crystalline grit.

Adi sighs. “Fetch me a dustpan before you go, would you, Siri?”

“Uh…yes. Of course.”

Adi purses her lips, fighting a rueful smile. “Say what I will about Naasade’s teaching methods – he’s certainly creative.” She muses, sweeping off her lap with one hand.

Siri gives her an odd look, handing her the brush and dustpan, and continues to give her an odd look her entire way back out of their quarters.

Ah well, hardly the most foolhardy thing a padawan has ever caught their master doing.

Still, curiosity itches. What exactly _did_ Naasade have his padawan trying to learn?

~*~

"What are you doing?"

Luminara opens her eyes to find Depa lounging in the grass in front of her, brown eyes both curious and amused.

"I don't actually know." Luminara admits, smiling to see her friend, much more settled of herself than when last they were together. Knighthood suited her. "Something Obi-Wan does. Apparently, it's meant to advance ones Force perception abilities. I'm still not entirely convinced."

And she didn't think Obi-Wan was either, but that hardly deterred him from trying. At the very least, it certainly enhanced his focus and control.

"Hm." Depa remarks, and Luminara's focus falters when silver beads break through her ribbons of sand, dancing in spinning orbits of each other and casting grains aside with glee.

"Depa!" Luminara protests, fighting to seem stern. "That's hardly fair. Some of us still have a deal of learning to do."

"That you are not already a knight baffles me, Luminara." Depa says earnestly, which Luminara thinks is sweet.

"I'm in no hurry." Luminara replies modestly. "But thank you. Perhaps I'm more studious, but I think there is much of myself I have yet to learn, that you have already discovered."

Depa takes this in with the same consideration in which it was offered, and a deeper look comes into her eyes. "Perhaps so." She remarks, with a solemn reserve befitting her rank, which she had not had a year ago. Then her features lighten to teasing. "But I dont think you're going to find much of yourself in a grain of sand."

"Now, now, Depa." Luminara teases, " wisdom is to be found in all the world. Is there not that poem...?"

"No, don't-" Depa groans.

~*~

"Sian, as much as I wish to encourage you in all endeavors..." Qui-Gon trails off, eyeing the field of sand floating in the air.

"Do not." His padawan says direly, her blonde friend sitting wide eyed a prim on the sofa. "Distract me."

"I have no desire to do." Qui-Gon mutters, well aware of the undesirous mess that would cause.

His padawans focus is intense, iridescent eyes bright, and Qui-Gon watches with no small amount of pride as the sand moves along invisible structures, as a flat surface folds in on itself, grains tumbling together into a box shape.

A leaky box shape.

"Aw no." Sian whines, dissapointed as some of her sand slips to the floor.

"Quite the contrary, padawan, I'm quite impressed." Qui-Gon admits freely, glad that he doesn't struggle for the compliment. " Though I do hope you know where the broom is." He adds, tone a touch dry.

Sian sighs exhaustively. " Yes, master, I'm acquainted." She grumbles.

"Most excellent. I'll leave you to it then." He smiles, idly wondering where she came up with these ideas...and how, exactly, she had accomplished the feat he just witnessed.

It's very difficult to train a padawan whose imagination outpaces his own, he's coming to realise, and she present more of a challenge every day.

But it's one he's enjoying more and more.

~*~


	4. Jango Fett

Obi-Wan has perhaps a bare second to notice that someone had fallen into step with his master before his master is quite abruptly knocked into him, sending him tripping to the ground.

“Ow!” Obi-Wan bites his tongue and jumps to his feet, alarmed, to find his master righting himself, one hand on his belt – where his lightsaber no longer is.

Alarm crawls through him, but the expression on his master’s face is…. Annoyed.

The man looks vaguely familiar, dark hair over a tan face, wearing a heavy jacket and armored boots, a smirk on his face as he tosses Master Ben’s lightsaber back and forth in his hands. “You know, _jetii_ , I didn’t think I’d get the drop on you so easy. I thought your kind could sense danger?”

Master Ben’s fist comes up across his chest, and that finally clicks. Obi-Wan hastily copies the gesture, realizing this is Jango Fett, the _Mand’alor_.

“Perhaps I would have – “Master Ben replies primly. “ – if you actually meant me any harm.”

Fett’s expression twists a little at that, and he tucks Master Ben’s lightsaber into a pocket inside the edge of his jacket. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He mutters, eyeing the pair of them. “You know, I heard a very interesting rumor.”

Obi-Wan glances at Master Ben, whose brow is furrowed in puzzlement, and then – “Oh dear.” He sighs.

“Er…Master?” Obi-Wan inquires hesitantly. Fett’s smirk just widens.

“Ben Naasade, I challenge you for your Padawan.” The _Mand’alor_ declares, shifting his balance in the eager expectation of a fight. “Someone has to make sure he’s instilled with some proper Mandalorian values, at least. That is, if he follows the way.”

“He does.”

“I do!” Obi-Wan insists, flushing a moment after. His master glances at him fondly, and then eyes the space dock around them, and the space they have available.

“Here?” He inquires.

“Nowhere better.” Fett replies, and lunges.

Obi-Wan feels his eyes go wide and quickly darts out of the way, because _couldn’t they at least let him get clear first_?

Master Ben grunts and lets himself fall back, pulling Fett with him and they both tumble boots over brain into a roll, snapping back up to their feet with the limber grace of younger men. Well, Fett’s still a rather young man himself, and Master Ben isn’t more than a decade his elder, but…

Wrestling like that was generally the sport of teenlings.

Master Ben takes the next advance, shunting aside a kick to his chest with the side of his arm and lunging in to grab Fett’s shoulder. Fett lets him grab, grabs him back and with a grunt of effort twists the jedi into a flip, and slams him into the ground.

Master Ben gasps out air, rolls before Fett can come down on him, and kicks. Fett saves his knee from being blown out with an awkward dodge and staggers a bit to regain his balance.

Obi-Wan’s attention is riveted, but he can’t fail to notice that they are certainly drawing outside attention as well. Brawling in public is not exactly discreet.

Master Ben is back on his feet in a flash, and the two men face each other for a moment, each assessing their next move. Fett loses patience first. Master Ben jerks, pushing Fett’s punch to his face aside, and Fett steps in without hesitation, turns, and slams an elbow back into the jedi’s face.

Obi-Wan flinches at the singular sound of his nose being broken, Master Ben letting out a dark swear, reeling back only for Fett to grab him by the hair and slam his face down into a knee, blood spattering the floor.

Panic wells up, even though Master Ben manages to grab Fett by the collar, plant a boot on his instep, and then slam him to the floor with brutal force, and Obi-Wan jerks his hands out-

“ _Stop it_!” He shouts, and they both get knocked off balance with a shove of the Force. Fett swears blackly, and Master Ben grunts as his ass hits the floor, blood running through his beard, staining his clothes, reminding Obi-Wan sickly of his injuries on Tavorski.

He’s used to the challenge bouts, but those never got _bloody_.

Obi-Wan flushes, ears burning hot, and nervously clenches his shaking hands. Master Ben eyes him, but then looks down and groans as he deftly resets his nose with an awful cracking sound Obi-Wan can feel in the back of his throat, making him want to vomit.

“Gross.” He mutters, and his Master looks up with watery-eyed amusement. He then eyes his bloody hands and his stained tunics and sighs exasperatedly, looking over to Fett.

“I do believe I lost this round.” The Jedi concedes.

“You do believe-“ Fett grunts in annoyance, picking himself up, carefully testing how well his ankle will support him, rotating one shoulder with experimentality. By Obi-Wan’s guess, he’s got a sprained ankle, and from the halting flinch he gives, stilling his movement, possibly a pulled muscle or two, maybe even a cracked rib. He’s a few shades paler than he was a minute ago, so he’s certainly in pain somewhere.

“My apologies for your distress, padawan.” Master Ben remarks, trying to clean up his face with the sleeve of his robe, which is – not sanitary, in the least. Fett scoffs, and Obi-Wan glowers at him, _Mand’alor_ or not. Fett catches the look and grimaces faintly, muttering beneath his breath.

Obi-Wan crosses his arms and turns his discontent on his master. “You – lost.” He repeats, angry and faltering. “He’s not even a Jedi.” Obi-Wan points out.

Master Ben stands, a bit wobbly as he does, and Fett grabs his arm to steady him, for which the older Jedi nods gratefully. “No, he is not, but the Challenge hardly precludes that. However, I don’t believe he issued proper notice to the Temple.” He points out, glancing at Fett.

Fett scowls darkly, aggravated. “Technicalities.” He growls, having taken the effort to track them here.

“So his claim, Obi-Wan, I leave up to you.” Master Ben finishes, ignoring Fett’s complaint, and Obi-Wan blinks.

“What?”

Master Ben lifts a brow. “If you do wish to follow the ways of Mandalore, you can hardly have a better instructor than the _Mand’alor_ , and cultural inheritance aside, there is much I believe you could learn from a man of Jango Fett’s caliber.”

Fett’s eyes narrow, scowl loosening, and he looks faintly embarrassed by the implied praise.

“You…. _want_ him to teach me?” Obi-Wan clarifies, torn over the fact that the man in question literally just broken his master’s face. That doesn’t instill Obi-Wan with great confidence. Although this was, apparently, the same man who saved his life on that Spice Frigate. Obi-Wan doesn’t exactly recall much of the experience, but that doesn’t mean it did not still have weight.

Master Ben gets an odd, coy look in his eye, and smiles faintly. “You do recall, padawan, that old adage about teachers and students. I believe the experience would be…beneficial.”

Obi-Wan stares back at his master, while Fett glances suspiciously between them.

There were a lot of old adages about students and teachers, but the one that came to mind…

 _Good teachers, students make_.

What in the galaxy did his master think _Fett_ could learn from _Obi-Wan_?

Obi-Wan turns his look on the _Mand’alor_ , studying him intensely, and Fett fixes himself with a stern, flat expression, staring back. Eventually, he recalls that he still has a lightsaber tucked into his coat, and he turns it back over to its proper owner, breaking eye contact to do so.

“Okay.” Obi-Wan concedes, wondering nervously what he’s about to get himself into, and a little excited nonetheless. No other padawan got to go off and train with warrior kings, now did they?

“Okay?” Fett repeats.

“Okay.” Master Ben nods with a smile, and Obi-Wan is still distressed by the blood in his teeth and on his lips. _Honestly_. Master Ben turns to the other man, one brow quirking. “ _Mand’alor_ Fett, I entrust you with my padawan. See to it he’s safely returned in a month.”

“He’ll come back.” Fett replies blithly.

“ _Fett_.” Master Ben says, tone a little sharper. “ _See to it_ he’s _safely_ returned in. a. _month_.” He repeats. Fett eyes him, and the new edge of steel to Obi-Wan’s master’s gaze. The warning implicit sinks in, and the _Mand’alor_ nods.

“On my honor, _jetii_.”

Master Ben tilts his head just so, gaze pinning down the other man, and Obi-Wan has a feeling his intent is a little more severe. _On your life_ , that look says, which is both comforting and chilling to the young padawan.

The two men nod in understanding, and Obi-Wan’s master offers him a smile and a squeeze on the shoulder before departing. “Mind him, Padawan, but mind yourself as well.”

“I will, Master.” He promises, and then Master Ben is strolling away, hopefully to receive medical attention, and Obi-Wan is left standing in a space port with a slightly disconcerted Jango Fett.

Obi-Wan crosses his arms and raises a brow at the man, who frowns.

“You look exactly like him when you do that.” He mutters crossly.

Obi-Wan beams, pleased at that.

~*~

Lin is wide awake the moment the soft blip of the perimeter alert goes off, the floodlights inside the homestead’s barrier wall coming on, flooding the entire lot _and_ the house, light pouring in every window. Elav is already on his feet, and holds out a hand to her when she sits up.

Lin clasps her hand in hers and he pulls her from the bed, helping her stumble towards the security monitor in their room while he leaves to check on their little boy in the room across the hall. He ducks back in a moment later.

“Sound asleep.” Elav tells her quietly. “Do I need to go up?” He asks her, speaking of the turret they have installed over the attic. They have automatic defenses, of course, but Elav had firmly refused to have anything as powerful as a laser cannon put into automation, when a computer targeting glitch could be devastating.

“I don’t think so.” Lin murmurs, frowning at the monitor. The ship that set down lifted off again, leaving just one figure standing in the path up to their home. “I don’t think it’s _Kyr’stad_.”

“Does that mean I can go back to sleep?” Her husband inquires, lekku relaxing, his words devolving into a wide yawn. Lin snorts at him.

“Yes, Elav, you can go back to sleep.” She leans forward and presses a kiss to his shoulder, giving him a shove. He lands on the bed with an ‘oof!’ and stretches. “Keep my side of the bed warm.” She orders.

“ ‘lways, _cyare_.” He mumbles, sinking back into his pillow. She smiles at him fondly, grabs a blaster, which makes him twitch and peek one eye open, and heads out the door.

“Try and aim away from the house!” He calls after her.

“My aim isn’t that bad.” She mutters darkly, though the truth was she’d always been better with forge fire than blaster packs. Explosives, on the other hand – she was a master with explosives.

She snatches a coat off the hook and shrugs it on on her way out the door. Her visitor hasn’t moved towards the house – wise, that, as there is an automatic stun blaster aimed at him from above her front door. She has to blink a bit, the floodlights almost too bright, but something about that silhouette seems familiar, about the cut of those shoulders, in spite of the bag slung over their back, and the plant of their feet.

“ _Tion’cuy_?” Lin calls out briskly, blaster in hand as she comes down the steps.

The bag drops, and the man crosses his arms.

“Your aim still isn’t good enough to threaten me.” He calls.

Lin freezes.

She knows that voice, but that can’t be-

He’s _dead_.

They all _died_.

She’s close enough now to make sense of his face between the too bright lights behind him and the shadows of his coloring.

He shifts, loosening his arms again, and runs a hand up over his hair. “You do recognize– it’s been-“

Oh, yeah, she knows that clip-toned awkwardness too.

“Of fucking course I recognize you, Jango Fett, I’m not a fucking idiot, you karking son of a hutt. You were – after Galidraan – we were told-“

“No one else made it.” He says hoarsely, as she stalks up to him in a daze of elation and fury and grief, still half wondering if she weren’t dreaming.

“I know.” She’d lost her mother at Galidraan, and Elav two younger brothers.

“You changed your _aliit_.” Fett remarks. “I wasn’t sure I had the right household. There aren’t… I tried to find some of the others, but they weren’t…” He shakes his head. Some hid too well, she knows, and others… not well enough.

“Clan Betoya sheltered us.” Lin says. “Death Watch was hunting us down. It was…safer.” Elav had begged her, and she would not risk her son for her pride. A name had been a small price to pay for her family’s survival.

He nods, jaw clenched with potent anger, throat tightening as he swallows. He looks less than the man she remembers. Thinner, sharper, more brittle, less certain, but all that unyielding conviction is still there, all that indominatable strength. Maybe he can’t see it in himself, but she can tell in a glance that the man he once was, that all that potential of what he could be, was still there.

 _He is still the Mand’alor_ , she thinks. _That the Mand’alor is a man, and that men can be wounded does not matter. He is still my king_.

“Come inside.” Lin offers. “You can make up a bed. Elav can put on a proper breakfast at a more reasonable hour.”

“I just came – you still forge? I need someone who can look over my armor, redo the paint.” He says gruffly.

Lin rubs at her brow, nods, and repeats herself. “Come inside, _Mand’alor_. You can make up a bed. Elav can put on a proper breakfast at a more reasonable hour, and I’ll see how abused your _beskar’gam_ has been after the sun comes up.”

He opens his mouth, closes it, scowls, and picks up his bag. Lin smiles agreeably, and leads him back into the house.

She stops him on the front step, turns to him, and reaches out her arm. Haltingly, he reaches out and clasps it, wrist to elbow. She grips his forearm hard. “ _Ka’ra_ provided, the True Mandalorian’s endured. I am damn glad to see you, Fett. Mandalore needs her king.”

“I can’t- I’m no king, Lin Betoya.” He shakes his head in denial, and she digs her fingers in. She can look to his face and see it – fear, failure, grief. Gods, has he not grieved? “Not anymore.”

 _Mandalore needs her king_. Lin thinks furiously. _And her king needs a kick in the rear_.

“If you live, Fett, the _Mand’alor_ lives. _We_ live.” Lin says simply, releasing him. “Maybe that’s enough.”

She knows it isn’t – and the flash in his eyes tells her he knows it isn’t, but he simply isn’t ready. Lin can retemper steel and mend _beskar_ well enough, but a wounded soul was far beyond her gifts. All she can do is be patient, and pray.

At least now she has something real to pray for.

The _Mand’alor_ lives.

~*~

Bo-Katan keens low in her throat, teeth gritted, twists her shoulder, and tries to get the tweezers in the right spot. She knows there’s _something_ in the abrasion on her back, she can fucking feel it, but he just can’t fucking reach.

She curses the fact that they don’t have even a basic medical droid, lets her eyes water, and sucks in a breath to try again.

“Eh, eh, eh.” She flinches when Fett just seems to step out of nowhere, and a hand grabs hers, closing around her fingers and the tweezers. “You’re going to tear yourself up doing that.”

“I’m fine.” Bo-Katan snaps, jerking her hand free and turning to glare at him, trying not to quail at the fact that she’s stripped down to her breast-wrap. One of the _Kyr’stad_ _bajuriise_ might have leered at her for it, but Fett just fixes her with an impatient look, taking a step back and crossing his arms. “I can take care of myself.”

Besides that fact, he was probably pissed at her. Her injuries were her own damn fault, and so where his. She was lucky he hadn’t let her drop out of the sky when her jet-pack blew after the stunt she pulled.

“You know the delightful aspect of adopting you, _Tukran’ika_?” He drawls, and Bo-Katan narrows her eyes at the nickname – _Little_ _Hellcat_ \- still uncertain as to whether he said that with affection or as an insult. “I don’t have to let you.”

She scowls at him, fingers painfully tight around the tweezers in her hand. She could stab him with them, if necessary. He wasn’t even in armor. And he’d just had his shoulder reset, not to mention the healing fracture in his wrist – from catching her before she painted the ground.

“I fucked up your op.” She reminds him coldly.

His brow twitches. “Yep, you did that.” He remarks infuriatingly. Gods, what did it take to send him stomping off in a thrice damned huff? It used to be so _easy_. He doesn’t even look like he wants to hit her, and that means she doesn’t know what to do with all the tension in her body, screaming at her to fight-back. There wasn’t anything to _fight_ , and he wasn’t _leaving_.

He studies her critically and grumbles beneath his breath, no doubt seeing that coiled violence. “You started that fight, _ad’ika_.” Bo-Katan flinches – she much prefers hellcat to that. “But _we_ finished it. You pissed me off and you did it on purpose, but I am never going to leave you to fight alone. Not like that.”

He holds out his hands for the tweezers. “Not on the field, and not after, either. Give those over, tell me what the fuck you got stuck where, and lets both hope you don’t need stitches, because I am shit with a needle and we don’t have any more flesh plast.”

Bo-Katan shoves the tweezers into his hand, heart pounding. Why are her hands shaking? She’d been less afraid of him when he was literally beating the shit out of her. She turns stiffly, showing him her back, knuckles clenches white over her thighs, teeth grinding down hard enough to hurt. “Just under my shoulder-blade. Not the big cut, the one next to it.” She mutters.

“Heh, yeah it looks swollen. Anti-sep?” He asks, and she looks for his reflection on the glossy-faced cabinets in front of her, because he’s not doing anything, and shouldn’t he be-

“I took a shot already.” She says, and tenses when she hears the clicking hum of the disinfectant screen come on, Fett taking care to clean his hands. Oh.

She jerks when his calloused hand touches the topside of her shoulder, and couldn’t he make more _noise_?

“Easy, _ad’ika_. I’m not gonna hurt you on purpose.” He murmurs quietly.

“Since when?” Bo-Katan scoffs.

“Hey, I ever hit you it’s cause you’re trying to fucking kill me.” He scoffs right back. “Self-defense is fair fucking game. _Relax_.”

She tenses up further, and he growls out a sigh. “Just hurry up.” She snaps.

His hand moves off her shoulder, carefully prodding around the gashes and abbraisions on her back, and she hisses when he spreads the cut with the debris in it, trying to get a look before digging in with the tweezers.

“Quit tensing up.” He orders. “You’re going to fuck the muscle if it’s anything sharp.”

“You’re the one with the tweezers.” She grits out. “Just grab it already.”

He does, a pinprick of cold, and then a lancing tug that had her eyes flooding, lungs stuttering. He stops.

“Holy fuck don’t-“

Something tears, and she rocks forward with a gasp, and he swears quietly behind her. A second later something cool and soothing is being applied over the cut, which shortly goes numb. It takes her a minute to recollect her breath. “What. Did I. Have-?”

He steps around her side, holding up the tweezers, and pinched in their grip is a two inch long, millimeter wide twisted filament of metal. It is not the chip of duraplast or splinter of steel she was expecting.

He gestures it towards her pointedly. “Not good.” He says.

“No shit.” She retorts, eyeing the shrapnel.

“Does it feel like you’ve got anything else stuck in your back?”

“No. I flushed the wounds out already, it was just… that.” She stares at it, thinking she’s very lucky it was up at her shoulder, and not lower to her lung. Or nearer to her spine. She looks up at him, her guts squirming. Had she actually tried to pull that out herself at a bad angle, yeah, that would have been messy, and it would have hurt a hell of a lot more. “Thanks.” She mutters.

He chuffs, drops the tweezers in a tray, and picks up the stack of bacta patches she set out. “Need help with these?” He offers, and she can feel the other cuts on her back stinging, some weeping fluid still.

She could take care of it herself. It would only be mildly frustrating.

She swallows. “Yeah, if you could.” She says.

His brow softens, and the edge of his lips quirk, and Bo-Katan blinks.

That almost looked like a smile, like she’d actually made him _happy_.

What the fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MANDO'A:
> 
> Cyare- beloved  
> Kyr'stad- Death Watch  
> Tion'cuy - who goes there? / Halt, who are you?  
> Aliit - identity, clan and kin  
> beskar'gam - mandalorian armor  
> Ka'ra - stars, mythos: The souls of mand'alors, watching over them.  
> bajuriise - teachers, instructors, trainers, etc.  
> ad'ika - son or daughter, 'little one' or 'young one'

**Author's Note:**

> Author: Realized this might cause some confusion - Mace and his grandpadawan are from the future-past, not the present in Desert Storm. I just wanted to write a bit about them, because that lineage has so much unwritten potential and feels.


End file.
